


Apocrypha

by anr



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-09
Updated: 2003-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One woman, five opportunities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three Sides

**Author's Note:**

> BETA: suzvoy and yamadara

It begins with her heels cradled in the southern two pockets, her hips arching off firm, green felt and Sam feeling anything but relaxed. Jack's tongue is snaking its way through soaked curls; laving swollen flesh with a moist, erotic kiss. Teeth nibbling--keeping her on edge--on the outer-lips of her sex; grazing over a terribly sensitive clit.

"Oh GOD, don't stop."

Long, wet, licks that have her keening silently, eyes screwed shut as his mouth fucks her into the pool table and out of coherency. Talented lips suckling at her folds, his tongue thrusting in and out, in and out, in and out of her hole and curling--oh GOD, how is that even POSSIBLE?--on each drawback so that that tiny little erogenous zone of hers is stroked in such a climactic way.

"Don't," she begs, wanton and unashamed, "don't ever fucking stop..."

His mouth is full.

So he doesn't.

  


* * *

  


Then segues to find Sam bent over a wooden deck railing as a cool hand broaches the edge of her skirt and slips under. Palm gliding over thigh then higher, fingers searching out the edge of her panties and twisting inside. She arches her back and digs hips and fingers into the wood.

"More."

O'Neill presses closer and she can feel, nestled against her ass, his cock thickening and hardening. "No manners," he says quietly, a smile she can't quite see melting his voice, "say please."

She moans softly, quietly, and wishes his house wasn't full of celebrating, partying, people. His fingers slip and slide along her flesh, skirt raising further. She twists and undulates and almost forgets to breathe when the rasp of his zipper permeates the evening air.

"Please," he insists, rubbing against her.

A smile lights her features; makes her duck in case the glow is seen. "Now," she imps instead and O'Neill makes a noise, low in his throat, that could almost be a growl.

"No manners at all," he complains again--it's an act though, she knows it is--edging her panties out of the way and sliding home. "Completely rude."

A choked-off gasp-moan-sob-groan claws its way from her throat. "You like me," she breathes unsteadily, "because I'm rude."

O'Neill shifts until he can find her hands on the railing, his palms covering her skin. His right hand is slick from her juices, their fingers tangling together easily.

"Rude," he repeats, rocking against her, "sexy," she grins, leaning over further, "and very," long, slow strokes, "very," she's so glad she's retired, "VERY naughty."

She laughs then, his hands leaving hers to clamp one palm over her mouth--silencing her quickly--and the other to grip her waist as he pushes into her again and again and again. She licks her lips, his palm, and tastes herself on his flesh as they come.

"You like me naughty," she says eventually, his weight warming her back, the railing hard against her abdomen.

He chuckles, breath tickling the back of her neck. "Maybe," he concedes, kissing her hair, "but you still have no manners."

  


* * *

  


And ends in a supply closet with no lights, as the Colonel places his hand on her shoulder and Sam thinks--

About right here, right now, right every-which-way and--God--why is he hesitating? Why won't his hand just MOVE already? Go further down... connect her shoulder to her collar and her collar to chest. Brush his palms against her breasts and spell S-A-M-ohgod-S-A-M against her lips.

About his thigh wedged between hers, and her boots tracing his calves. Fingers finding zippers and hands pulling flesh closer. Her arms above her head, holding tight to the shelving. His lips on her nipples, suckling hard, biting soft.

About fucking, in the dark, in a supply closet with no lights, and Sam thinks--

\--about turning them on.

  


* * *

  



	2. Travelodge

"Almost ready?" asks Barrett, looking not-so-surreptitiously at his watch, and Sam nods as she zips her travel bag shut.

"Yep," she replies, looking up to find the Agent hovering at her motel room door, "all set."

Gesturing briefly towards the door, Barrett smiles. "So..."

Her eyebrow raises as she grabs her briefcase, slinging the strap over her shoulder, "that anxious to be rid of me, huh?" she asks.

"What? Oh. No. I have a debriefing is all."

She frowns, glancing a look at her own watch. "Well, if you're running late, I can always take a cab to the airport..."

"No, no, it's fine."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

Collecting her travel bag, she crosses the room to stand beside him at the door. "So," she segues slowly, "I guess this is it."

He nods. "Guess so. It's been... nice... working with you, Major." His right hand extends and she shakes it as a wry smile quirks his lips. "A lesson in trust, if nothing else."

She smiles herself. "Not too late then, after all." Their hands part and she adjusts her grip on the travel bag as she turns and opens the door.

Pauses suddenly. Closes it again. Turns back around.

"Listen, if you're ever in Colorado," she starts as his eyebrow raises, "look me up," a smirk creases her features, "we could get together--you know, lie about the weather?"

The eyebrow drops as, grinning, he nods. "I'd like that."

Strangely enough, so would she.

Impetuously, she leans forward; intending to press her lips to his cheek in a swift--polite--goodbye and so long and thanks for all the covering--kiss. Which goes exactly to plan for all of about three seconds, at which point his head tilts--and he must have done that on purpose because it certainly wasn't HER intention--and suddenly she's REALLY kissing him.

Like, with tongue. And everything. And her travel bag is thumping to the floor, briefcase sliding down to join it, as her arms wind around his neck and his hands breach her jacket to slip around her waist. Her gun follows the same path as her luggage only seconds before he pushes her backwards, pressing her against the door.

God, she thinks, cliche-like, how LONG has it been? His tongue slides against hers and she counts backwards as her hands wash away his jacket and his shirt and his knee wedges itself between hers. McKay doesn't count and--oh, yes, do that, like that, that's good--has it really been five YEARS since she stood in the control room with Narim and pressed her mouth to his?

And just where exactly--oh, God--did Barrett learn how to do THAT?

Eyes wide--his tongue still doing wicked, beautifully wicked, things in her mouth--she clutches at his shoulders as his hands untuck her shirt and fumble with the zipper on her skirt. Held against the door, her manoeuvrability limited, she nevertheless manages a little undressing of her own. Clothes fall, limbs tangling, and her head thumps against the motel room door when her shirt is pulled away a little enthusiastically.

She blinks away the not-quite-pain and searches hungrily for his lips, so not ready to stop kissing him anytime soon. Too long, she reminds herself, too goddamned long.

After her skirt puddles to the floor his thigh replaces his knee and she curls her leg around his hip appropriately. Her tongue fights with his--she has a few skills of her own, thank you very much--and then... oh.

Oh!

OH!

Now THAT'S been awhile too.

At his urging--and she hopes to God he knows what he's doing--she lets her other leg raise too, wrapping around his body. Her back is pressed hard against the door, his hands on her ass, and--GOD--he better not drop her 'cause she'll so kick HIS ass if he does.

They're kissing and thrusting and squeezing and KISSING and... oh.

Oh, oh, OH.

As he thrusts into her hard, body shuddering, Sam knows that she's close, SO close, but not--oh--quite--my--close--God--enough. Clutching his shoulders, nails no doubt biting, she considers--not for the first time in her life--faking it. Even starts to groan against his lips, arching into the body already slipping from hers as she thinks about breaking the skin beneath her fingernails.

But as he slips, he twists. Her leg drops from the curve of his waist and a hand slides fast from her collarbone to wrist to hip. Darting sideways and lower and then--suddenly--there are fingers delving into her body. Curling this way, stroking that way. Pumping quickly and decisively and she's definitely not thinking about faking it now.

Don't--she thinks harshly, kissing him roughly--ever--a champagne supernova sparkles low in her belly--STOP.

Then she implodes in his embrace, quite impressively, and pleasure hums its way into his mouth.

They come up for air simultaneously, bodies still close, and she rests her forehead to his as her heart races and lungs pant. "That was," she gasps, and he nods, skin gliding against hers sweatily.

"Yeah," he agrees.

Her eyes close, blink open, then close again as her other leg unwraps from his hip and his embrace loosens enough for her to stand on her own--shaky--two feet. Thoughts are scattered--much like their clothing, she realises absently--and she tries desperately for coherency.

"I think--" she says, but he interrupts her before she can finish.

"My debriefing just got cancelled."

He is SUCH a liar.

"So did my flight."

As is she.

Then there's pushing and stumbling and twisting and turning and suddenly they're on the bed, flesh still kissing flesh. Sam gasps, Barrett moans; dishonesty is no doubt abounding yet she can't quite bring herself to care. When her lips find his ear--tugging hard on the lobe--she breathes out, "cover me."

So he does.

  


* * *

  



	3. Parking

Sam isn't sure of the cause--riding? Jonas?--but the end result is the same. She's wet--maybe wetter then she can ever recall--labia slick and swollen, aching for pressure. Begging for a touch. Any touch.

This touch.

They're parked on the edge of a parking lot, next to some nameless, suburban park. Helmets lie discarded on the gravel, no doubt scratched, but she just doesn't care. In the distance, swings creak slowly, chains jangling, and a cool breeze slips around her ankles as she locks them behind his back. Booted heels must be digging into his flesh, bruising his spine, but if he cares--if it hurts--he comments not.

A hot mouth slants further across hers, tongue probing deeply. She sucks on it desperately, curls her own tongue around his and then traces the back of his teeth with the tip.

He growls low, hands bunching her leather jacket at the spine, tugging her forwards on the seat. The motorcycle rocks with her movement--or maybe she does with its--and their groins meet with a rasp of denim. Her hips adjust on his, thighs tightening around his waist, and the pressure is good--great even--but not quite enough.

Her mouth is torn from his, gasping; neck arching and head thrown back as she gulps suddenly rare oxygen. A moan hums in her throat as his lips descend to trace its path. Tongue licking the sweat from her skin, sucking on the ridge of her collarbone. Her jacket and shirt bunch with his ministrations, the clothing restrictive and heavy and hot.

She rocks against him again, trusting him to keep the motorcycle upright, if not steady. Pressure blooms briefly then fades. Rises again as they make out under this cloudy, moonless night sky. Curling upwards she molds her chest to his, breasts heavy and aching, thighs cramping with a pleasure/pain mixture that feels so very, very good.

Hands tangle in descent and clothing parts as fingers find zippers and palms warm to flesh. His cock is smooth in her grip, hard and throbbing and so is her clit as he frees one hand to delve it into the fissure of unzippered denim and cotton scraps.

So wet; so very, very wet--wetter than she can ever recall--and his fingers slip and slide over her flesh, missing her clit more often than not. Blunt fingernails scrape through drenched folds and these random, slipshod caresses tear her apart messily, shattering her before she even realises she's been broken.

He rides her hand like he rides her bike; hard and grating. When he kisses her at climax, his teeth pulling at her lips and bruising her mouth, there's that pain/pleasure mix again. Wild, heated kisses as her teeth tear her name from his lips and his tongue tries to snake the exclamation back.

A breeze tickles her ankles, swings move in the park.

Sam knows she'll take Jonas riding again soon.

  


* * *

  



	4. Long Distance Lust

With a glass of wine in hand and the stereo playing quietly, Sam's actually feeling quite relaxed. On her coffee table is her latest copy of 'Astronomy & Astrophysics' and just as soon as she feels like moving again, she'll pick it up and start reading.

Yep. Movement. Any minute now.

Her phone rings.

Glaring balefully, she stares at the cordless lying next to her magazine, its ringer in no way matching the relaxing melodies currently venturing forth from her stereo speakers. Bach. Mozart. Brahms. Piano fugues, adagios, concertos. She silences the phone on its fifth ring.

"Hello?"

"I've been thinking about you."

"Can't say the same. How'd you get this number?"

A pause, during which she actually considers the possibility that he'll tell her, then: "what are you wearing?"

Her eyes roll and she shakes her head. "Geez, McKay--original much?"

"You want original? I can do that."

No you can't, is the automatic thought-response as she leans over to collect her wineglass. The cool liquid slips down her throat, satin-like, and she leans back into her lounge cushions with a silent sigh.

"I'm gonna kiss you."

She laughs. Loudly. "And I'm gonna turn my head. Whoops, you missed. Bad luck." She pulls the phone from her ear, thumb stretching for the disconnect button.

"Good."

Pausing, she stares at the phone in her hand. Good? Without thinking, she returns the handset to her ear. "Good?" she says, wondering if she misheard.

"Yeah." A softish noise that sounds suspiciously like a sigh--but, of course, certainly isn't--echoes in her ear. "Good."

She frowns and sips at her wine. "Why good?"

"Well, because, with your head turned--"

"I'm a half-second from walking away?"

"Funny. But not before I get to touch--"

"Touch ANYTHING, McKay, and I'll remove your hand with a reactor."

"Not a problem, 'cause it's my lips that are gonna--"

Another retort forms swiftly, but the scientist is quicker.

"--very softly touch your cheek."

She blinks, not expecting that at all. The guy's an amateur sexual-harasser, after all. "My cheek?" she repeats. "You're gonna kiss my CHEEK?"

"Not kiss. Touch. Very, very softly."

Somewhat dumbfounded, she pulls the phone away again, stares at it, gapes soundlessly, then returns it to her ear.

"So softly, in fact, that you're barely gonna feel it."

"Good," she retorts, on cue.

"I'm gonna trace your cheekbone, the curve of your jaw. You're not wearing any perfume but I can smell--"

Strawberries. Vanilla. Melon-something. Pick a cliche, any cliche...

"--soap. On your skin. Which is kinda nice." A pause. "Ok, nice and BORING. Soap? Live a little, Major."

Her eyes roll and she takes another sip of wine.

"Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah--your cheek."

Jaw, she corrects silently, a split-second before she damns herself a hundred, thousand ways for paying even the slightest amount of attention to this phone call. McKay. Jerk. Hang up.

She settles back into the cushions further and drinks her wine, slowly.

"Brushing my lips against your cheek, barely touching you, really."

Her 'good' is--unfortunately--drowned by a final mouthful of wine, the empty wineglass carefully put aside on the coffee table.

"Then along your jaw until I reach your ear. Or, rather, just below your ear. There's this spot, you know, just beneath the earlobe? On the side of your neck? And since your hair's so short I don't even have to push it aside as I--"

He stops suddenly, causing her eyes to fly open--OPEN? when the hell did they CLOSE?--in surprise. An, "as you what?" slips out without thinking and she quickly formulates another sentence that will include the words 'slap you' and 'nice try'.

"Lick it. Right there, on that tiny, little patch of epidermis, where all those nerve endings rise up and your pulse throbs steadily. I lick it. That spot. Quickly."

Ok. So just WHEN, exactly, did her hand move to her neck? She snatches it away and rests her hand on her stomach.

There. Much better.

"Just a little taste, mind you. Nothing worth slapping me over."

Oh, she wouldn't say that.

"Besides, I'm already gone. Moving up. Resting my lips against your ear, now; hardly breathing as I map the whorls slowly. Maybe another little lick at the top there... and on the side... I pay careful attention, of course, to the skin behind your ear. Licking it... I should probably stop with the licking, I know, but, Major? You taste so GOOD..."

She'd verbally slap him right now... if only she hadn't already said she wouldn't.

"Down slightly--just a little--just so I can take the lobe between my teeth... I don't bite, honest." Another pause. "Well, not HARD, anyway." Her eyes snap shut. "And then I suck on it. Gently. Just a little suction as I flick my tongue against your earring and..."

Someone moans, but... that's ok. Really. Because it's not her. She KNOWS it's not her. SHE would NEVER moan like THAT over something MCKAY said.

"You like that, huh?"

Oh. CRAP.

"So my mouth? Your ear? Bit more suction then back down to that spot on your neck. Slightly longer licks now--I really need to make sure I know what you taste like--before I brush my lips back over your jaw... then your cheek..."

She's not panting. She's really, really not.

"... pressing my lips there... firmly. Swiftly." A final pause and his voice drops to a low, husky tone that she would have NEVER anticipated. "One kiss on the cheek, Major. Just as you gave me."

Which, a little voice reminds her suddenly, is what he said he was gonna do. 'I'm gonna kiss you.' Her eyes snap open. Bastard.

"Bastard," she growls into the handset.

He laughs. Loudly. Says, "gotta go, Major," and the dial-tone sounds abruptly in her ear.

She yanks the phone away furiously, glaring at it. Why that little...

Without thinking--without LETTING herself think--she star-sixty-nines his ass and follows the dialling prompt.

"McKay."

"Kiss me again."

  


* * *

  



	5. Temporal Wonder

It starts off innocently enough, thinks Sam. Shoulders brushing when they walk from the commissary to the labs. Fingers touching as they pass manuals and notepads to each other. Strands of long, blonde hair--loose and tangled from exertion--sliding across shoulders when they spar. Innocent enough; accidental even. Yet--

Not.

  


* * *

  


"Stop that," the Lieutenant says, hiding a smile as she tries to push her away. Yet Sam just grins as she leans closer, leans over her subordinate's shoulder and rests her chin on the collarbone.

'... if entropy could be reversed by time travel, so that forms of matter would be restored to that original state, then...'

She watches the Lieutenant's fingers fly across the keyboard but doesn't pay attention. Not really. Instead, exhaling slowly until wisps of hair move with the push of oxygen and tickle her nose, she finds other amusements.

Shoulder. Ear. Neck. Cheek. The curve of the Lieutenant's clavicle where nape meets upswept hair and is so very, very soft beneath Sam's brushing lips.

Teasingly, maybe breathily, Sam replies, "stop what?"

  


* * *

  


Sam flinches when Hailey's fingers wrap around her neck, pulling her down to a kiss that tastes like breath mints. "Your hands are cold," she mumbles through the kiss, her own hands twisting in the younger woman's hair, freeing the longer strands from its braid.

Hailey shrugs closer, lips curving against hers, "so warm them."

Yeah, 'cause making out on Cheyenne Mountain, in the middle of winter, is in no way gonna hamper THAT effort. Such a response is stolen, however, as Hailey's tongue wraps around her own and lashes against the roof of her mouth. Again Sam flinches from the cold; Hailey's hands unleashing her neck, slipping beneath layers of jacket, fatigues and shirt, chilling her spine. She moans.

"Ok."

  


* * *

  


As Jennifer slowly kneels, her form framed by Sam's limbs, the mattress dips and a theory is uttered. "Can the act of observing an event change the outcome? And what can you speculate about the state of affairs if nobody's watching?"

Sam's eyebrow arches and she draws up a leg, the limb bent and knee resting against Jennifer's arm. "Quantum physics?"

"Mmm," a hand rests on Sam's ankle and trails measuredly over calf and thigh, "synchronous parallel realities that are neither proven nor disproven unless scrutinised."

"Because the cat is neither dead nor alive--or IS either dead or alive--until the box is opened and results viewed," Sam agrees, recalling the theory. Jennifer's skin is warm against hers and she wonders at the theory's possible relevance to this situation before rewording, eventually, the question, "so is this really happening?"

The other woman sinks closer and lets her hair drape across Sam's leg. A gentle touch as she nuzzles soft inner-thigh, Sam curling into the caress. Teasing kisses are butterflied over flesh until lips suckle at wet folds, hot breath crawling across aching flesh, a tongue twining from clitoris to vagina. Sam cries out softly; twists in the woman's embrace; is left breathless as Jennifer's frenches her so very, very well towards climax.

Then tries to catch the breathing she hadn't even realised was running away in the first place.

"That depends," answers Jennifer at last, looking up through a hooded gaze and licking her lips, "did anyone watch?"

  


* * *

  


No. Not so innocent at all.

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/53701.html>


End file.
